


Way of the Warrior

by vanitaslaughing



Series: Cor Leonis Week [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Child Soldiers, Gen, Magic Meta, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, backstory speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/pseuds/vanitaslaughing
Summary: Cor Leonis throughout the years.He thought he knew what he signed up for when he enlisted in the Crownsguard. But little did he know, little did he know...





	1. Day 1 - Cor during his younger years

It was too late for regrets, but Cor Leonis definitely regretted his diligence at this very moment in time. At first he had been proud, proud enough that he felt like he was going to burst. All his achievements, and King Mors was finally acknowledging him for his hard and thorough work and focus on excelling.

Unfortunately for Cor that meant that he was going to leave the only home he had ever known, the Crown City. Not with anyone he knew either – all the other recruits, all of them wholesale older than him, were to remain behind for training. Cor himself was getting added to a special op that was to survey the battlefields across Lucis and report back; after that they were to go to the almost mystic city of Altissia in Accordo and ask the government of their ally nation to help them against the odds, perhaps even to unite against the empire and drive it out of Accordo after over a hundred years of having been part of it.

The leaving part was not the worst thing – he was more than happy to leave the Crown City behind. He had always wanted to see what lay beyond the shimmering magical barrier that they simply called the Wall.

No, the worst part was having to work with Prince Regis.

Very few people knew the Crown Prince personally, but they all knew that the young man was more than capable of rending entire squadrons apart. He was a force to be reckoned with, and though people called Cor the very same, the prospect of having to share his personal space with the prince of all people scared him witless. And that was not even including the other people on that travel – likely the prince’s Shield, his chamberlain and as far as Cor had heard at least one mechanic in case things went wrong. Four people he had never met because they did not interact with the Crownsguard, let alone the youngest out of all of them.

He took a deep breath as he waited. His summon had been sudden and with short notice, and his Commander had only roughly told him what was going to happen, which meant Cor barely had any time for himself to assess the situation.

He was just a commoner; even the mechanics employed by King Mors were at least of somewhat noble standing. Once more he recounted what he knew in the few moments before the prince was due to arrive. He was to go with them as protector, as best-suited choice out of all members of the Crownsguard. Their mission was fairly straightforward, all things considered, and it made him relax a little. Knowing what to do was the single most important step in being a successful member of the Crownsguard. They were to assist the battle when necessary, but otherwise were supposed to simply watch and learn about how the Lucians’ chances against the Niffs were. Most likely they were not good, as far as Cor heard last. Galahd was the most intense battlefield in all of Lucis – the Niffs presence there was apparently almost overwhelming. The Galahdians unfortunately were also the people who fought first and asked questions later, which made the situation there rather tense. Cleigne, Duscae and Leide were likely less intense as Galahd was going to be.

He spent a few moments mulling over the thought of having to deal with Galahdians in a battle situation before he heard someone marching down the hallway. Loudly. Clearly in a huff. There were other footsteps that followed Prince Regis as he stormed past Cor.

“Reg!” The prince was naturally followed by Clarus Amicitia. “What are you--”

There were another two people following the prince, but Cor had no chance to take a closer look at them – likely the prince’s chamberlain Weskham Armaugh and his betrothed, Lady Aulea – before the prince pushed the doors to the throne room open with an angry grumble. Everyone paused in the exact same moment; it was unheard of that someone just burst into the throne room like that, _especially_ royalty. Even worse, the king was within as far as Cor knew, and while King Mors and Prince Regis got along well there was an unspoken of strange air between the two of them lately. Trainees of the Crownsguard often muttered about that being related to King Mors looking rather old and exhausted and the prince being given little to no freedoms any longer. Tension between family was not something that should be gossiped about, least of all the royal family as far as Cor was concerned.

There was a split second of horrid silence before the prince started speaking.

“How dare you!? Your Majesty!?”

Cor could see how for a split second everyone held their breath. He himself also felt his heart skip a beat – nobody addressed the king like that. Not even the prince. _Especially_ not the prince. The royal family was supposed to showcase the perfect kingly composure that Lucis had even when in the middle of a war. Prince Regis was not supposed to object to whatever it was that he was objecting to. And therefore his Shield and his betrothed both held their breath.

The youngest member of the Crownsguard knew what this was about. Of course it had to be about him, and the careful glance that Aulea threw him as Prince Regis animatedly objected to having Cor along all but confirmed it.

* * *

_It burns it burns it burns--_

_His superior laughs. Everyone laughs._

_Magic – Elemancy – a power given to them by the king and the Crystal, a power watched over by the gods._

_Cor can’t use it. He tries, tries, tries time and time again, and all it does is burn his palms, burns his arms, burns his skin, his flesh, his--_

_Hurts, hurts, hurts. Everyone in the room laughs._

_He laughs with them._

* * *

Cor Leonis was the son of commoners. His childhood had been that of a poor Crown City citizen; still better than people in the war zones beyond the Wall, but lousy overall for someone who had the privilege of living in Insomnia. At what people called the ‘tender age of eight’ he decided that he was going to break out of the poor district he lived in. He was going to become a Crownsguard – the fact that he ever made it to the Citadel in one piece was an achievement all by itself. The Crown City was nowhere near as peaceful as people believed it was, and Cor was not liable to fall under the illusion that all was well in Lucis.

He made it, though. He managed what others had never managed before him, and soon found himself enlisted and under official training. The regimen was harsh; perhaps the only training in Eos that was as harsh if not harsher was rumoured to be the training for Niff soldiers.

And Cor excelled at it.

He outperformed quite a lot of older recruits easily; if anything about what happened during training reached the outside of the Citadel training grounds he was fairly certain that several family names were due for being absolutely disgraced. Among nobles and at least reputable upper class people Cor Leonis, son of commoners, stood out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t just his age, it was the way he held himself, the way he talked to people, the way he looked around and expected something or someone to jump at him at any moment. It was a gift – and a curse.

Eventually King Mors realised his talent. This was supposed to be the moment he would be proudest of in years to come, an achievement that none other could ever dream of getting. To set out beside the prince and his very select group, to assess the situation on the battlefield.

All Cor felt in that very moment was seething hatred for the man he was supposed to follow. Prince Regis was arrogant to think that he and his motley crew could manage all of this with just Clarus Amicitia beside them. Weskham Armaugh was not officially a member of the Crownsguard and not even Lucian to begin with, Cid Sophiar was barely more than a mechanic and much older than the rest of them. Hells, Sophiar even had a child just about Cor’s age.

Even just assuming that the magic of the Crystal and Amicitia’s undeniable strength were enough to keep them safe as they ventured into a straight up battlefield was arrogant. Absolutely arrogant. Prince Regis’ complaints had been shut down; he accepted Cor as companion after hours of debate. This was the last day he would spend in the Citadel.

He owned precious little things to begin with, so packing was not that hard. There was nothing of value – his money went straight to his family first and foremost. They needed it more than he did anyway.

But commoners were not exactly allowed in the Citadel. Thus when someone knocked on his door, Cor dropped the spare uniform he had been holding. No one ever knocked.

“Yes?”

The last person he would have ever expected to open the door was Aulea Trucilo. She was a noble, one of Prince Regis’ childhood friends, and just so happened to be his betrothed as well. Cor stared for a good few moments before he remembered his station and bowed to her as she entered the room. She was to be the princess of the country, after all, and her family was well-known throughout all of Lucis – even outside of it her bloodline had a considerable reputation. That, and there were rumours that they were excellent masters of chess; people who were about to outsmart several parties at once. It were only rumours, started to discredit the fact that the political marriage between her and Prince Regis was one of love as well.

She smiled at him. “There’s no need for that when we’re alone. Cor Leonis, right?”

He nodded quickly, careful not to make eye contact. He had been raised to respect nobles; a misstep could be a death sentence when all one had for themselves were their own name and the very clothes they wore. Even a smile could mean the end if the noble wound up offended. It just was like that in his parts of Insomnia. He never once questioned it.

“I wanted to apologise on Regis’ behalf. He’s too stubborn to do that, truly he is, but… what he said was out of line.”

Cor blinked a few times before he crossed his arms. “His Highness is royalty.” Professionalism was important for a good member of the Crownsguard, especially since apparently even King Mors had his episodes of… eccentricity. “I bear neither grudge nor was I offended.”

That was the most blatant lie he had ever told in his life, and Cor had lied a lot. About his origins. About injuries, about whether he had eaten or not. Commoners lied in the presence of nobility; nobility never picked up on it.

Aulea furrowed her brows. “It is true that you are young, and I understand Reg...is’ complaints,” that small pause as she corrected herself to say the prince’s full name instead of the affectionate nickname was endearing, “but what he said was still out of line. His Majesty Mors would not _burden_ his son with someone incompetent – I have been watching your preparations. You are diligent and good at seizing up a situation if you are not under stress. Your skill level in combat is way above the other newer members of the Crownsguard, yet you never once display plain arrogance and belittle others for their shortcomings. Perhaps it was your humble upbringing, but you behave yourself properly, you know your manners and are altogether very goal-oriented.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He hadn’t even noticed her observing him – for a moment he heard the voice of one of his peers speaking about Aulea Trucilo in a hushed tone. She was like a ghost, he had said, able to slink around the Citadel almost entirely undetected and able to gather whatever information that she desired.

“What I also saw was that you are… well, you are younger than any others on this journey. They will hold that against you, and perhaps you will crack under the pressure. I cannot quite tell, but I would like to believe that you are more than capable of the missions His Majesty has given you.”

She had watched him. She knew his every weakness, and her brown eyes suddenly turned into black holes. She knew about how magic refused to answer his calls, how he had taken up not one but _two_ katanas to be able to deflect magic blows during training. For a moment the room feels frosty, with Cor staring at the future queen with nothing short of utter horror and Aulea looking at him with a smile.

“You’ll be a fine addition to his team. Calm and level-headed where the others are not. Cor Leonis, I… please, keep him safe. Come home in one piece. … And don’t lie to Regis. He is far less forgiving when lied to – be honest next time he hurts your feelings.”

* * *

_The prince doesn’t laugh. The chamberlain doesn’t laugh. The mechanic doesn’t laugh. The shield doesn’t laugh._

_They stare at him with confused, concerned expressions as the laugh dies in his throat._

_The gift of the king backfires time and time again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts--_

_Suddenly the prince takes his hands. They have barely even spoken since the day they left, in that beautiful car, left the safety of the Wall to go all but got to war. The prince says nothing as he forces Cor to show the cracks and burns and blue patches. Magic, magic, magic, it always backfires._

_The shield asks if this is really a good idea. The mechanic grumbles as he kicks a broken piece of Niff technology. The chamberlain furrows his eyebrows._

_The prince’s hands are cold. He asks if this is his father’s magic._

_Cor tells the truth for once. The cracks, the burns. At least there’s no real frostbite this time – the blue vanishes into angry pink. He can feel his hands for once. Feels how gentle the prince’s hands are despite the fact they don’t like each other at all. Still it burns. Stings, stings, burns stings stingburnsting--_

_Prince Regis asks if Cor would agree to switching the person he draws his magic from. Cor doesn’t understand at first but agrees because that tone of voice… it sounds honest, caring._

_He still can’t use it. But it hurts less. His hands are not useless after combat if he tries to use it. The sting is less angry, the burn less hot, less, less, less..._

_Maybe he can trust Prince Regis after all. He’ll have to thank Lady Aulea once they return to Lucis._

_If they return to Lucis. The battlefields burn – the prince’s magic burns – Cor’s hands do, too._


	2. Day 2 - Trial of Gilgamesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the 30th here in Germany, which means two things:  
> 1) happy ff14 patch 4.2 day!  
> 2) oh GOD i am behind on my writing schedule and today is No Production, MMO Only day
> 
> upped the rating to be safe; updated the tags accordingly too.

He had learned quickly to adapt to situations. It was absolutely vital in the Crown City.

It was even more vital on the battlefield, and after the rough beginnings the prince, his friends and Cor started getting along. Perhaps it was not all that bad.

Then the losses were getting raked in and in and in, and suddenly they were faced with the terrifying truth – Lucis was never going to win this war. They came face to face with horrified Galahdians, men and women and children who had lost everything in the fire that always seemed to be burning at the horizon. No matter how many small victories the Lucians won once Prince Regis stepped in, they all seemed to lose more and more ground. They were retreating, with the prince offering support and reassurance where it was necessary. More often than not it fell upon deaf ears.

Or dead ears.

Galahd continued to burn and burn, and Prince Regis kept on staying despite the date of his return to Insomnia getting closer and closer. The people needed him, he said, and Cor could understand why the prince wanted to stay. Even a small victory was a victory; it meant people saved instead of another Galahdian pyre to send the souls to the Glacian with a greeting from the living, a gift of warmth for the goddess of silence, cold and death. It kept him awake at night, over and over and over. Civilians and soldiers alike haunted him in his sleep; the voices of those that he could not save and the voices of those he cut down himself.

They were supposed to be watching this he thought as he woke with a start another night, trying to desperately breathe when his thoughts and dreams were trying to drown him in blood. A few times he thought he saw Cid Sophiar look at him in the dead of night, in the middle of refugee camps, as Cor went to sit next to people around sparse campfires. At least at night the empire let the Lucians run. Somehow Cor felt like this was liable to stop at some point – they were teaching the Lucians a lesson, but still the Galahdians grouped up. So many volunteered to fight back with the Lucian troops. Men and women, teenagers his age. All of them with anger-contorted faces, and Cor was left sitting next to the ones that had not yet worked up the hatred to fight fire with fire. The was humbling even for someone from humble origins to sit next to these people.

And time and time again the dreams returned, with new faces, new voices. Everything burned just like his hands did whenever he tried to cast a spell to divert the MTs’ attention from the fleeing civilians. Every time he wound up dizzy and disoriented at camp, with Weskham sitting next to him.

“We ought to… return to the Crown City,” Cor croaked exactly once as he lay there, unable to feel his limbs and with his throat feeling just as parched as the hills of Leide were during summer. Galahd felt just as scorched about now; there was the constant smell of smoke following them around. Ash and smoke seemed to follow them wheresoever they went.

Weskham only exhaled slowly through his nose as he tilted his head from one side to another. Cor never got an answer. He didn’t need one; he already knew that they should but just like Prince Regis and Cor himself the others felt a sense of duty. They would stay for as long as possible.

* * *

_He wakes at the crack of dawn. No one stirs._

_He feels like a criminal sneaking off with the Ring of the Lucii. But the Ring of the Lucii is safe in Insomnia, on King Mors’ hand – though the people of Galahd could use it, definitely. The fabled power they cry for, the fabled power some quietly ask for as he sits beside them in the dead of night._

_Cor leaves, his both katanas by his side. One, a gift from the king before he left Insomnia. The other, his own. He’s confident enough._

_He needs the strength anyway. He has to protect the royal family, he realised a while ago as they watched yet another village in Galahd burn. And in order to protect he needs to get stronger. Though Clarus did his best, Cor’s mind is set._

_He leaves with the rising sun, swords by his side, alone outside Insomnia for the first time. Truly alone. The familiar tingle of magic he cannot use follows him, whispering, taunting him._

* * *

At first he wanted to pay attention. But as soon as the darkness of the cave surrounded him and the first detached voice drifted through the air, his mind shut down. It was like his dreams – the ominously flickering fire, the voices that followed him everywhere, the bodies of the dead rising to torment him further and further. It was like the Galahd of his dreams, the one where even the Niffs join the horrible chorus of voices that ever taunts him. He decided not to listen.

His mind was empty, but his heart in utter turmoil. He would not be leaving this place without something to show for it. He never lost the fights he picked, and it seemed appropriate that the one he picked now was one to the death. He had no desire to be a Shield of the King. He wanted to steel his resolve, to steel himself for what was inevitably to come.

“You really only want to run from your fears.”

“You hope you’ll die here like all the others.”

“You will.”

“You will.”

“We’ll end your suffering.”

Cor cut through the opposition as if they were made of paper. Corpses that moved about, dangling limbs and shredded cloth, ungainly groaning as he beat them down. Sometimes Daemons arose with them, horrific sights in the already uncanny canyon path. The voices followed him, whisking past him, taunting him as they rose to bar his way.

But Cor was not here to lose. He wanted to win against this perverse real version of his nightmares. He felt like he was in Galahd as well as down here. The faceless creatures became the faces of those that haunted him in his sleep. Staggering, attacking. His entire body was numb as he watched them dissipate, and he only became number whenever he rested. He felt no exhaustion, no adrenaline.

Back in Galahd he did. He always felt things in Galahd. His thoughts always raced whenever they watched MTs drop from the skies. His heart always skipped beats when they heard the cries of civilians. He could almost see himself taking a blow meant for Prince Regis again. The way blood dripped off Clarus Amicitia’s face after he shook off a blow to the head that left him with a concussion which a doctor from the last village they failed to save treated with shaking but unmistakably skilled hands. Weskham Armaugh’s quiet refusal to cook anything with meat in it for a few days after they had to cross a field of corpses, Lucian and Niff alike. The sound of Cid Sophiar’s spear tearing through machinery, through flesh – through both at the same time. There was something terrifying about the MTs to begin with, but the sounds they made… the sounds they made…

Cor buried his face in his hands. He had discarded his weapons on the ground earlier; this cliff before the trial chamber was calm and eerie enough to take a breather. He was supposed to be resting, but instead all he heard were the dissonant voices from his nightmares, mixed together with the voices that wafted through the canyon like mist. He didn’t even remember how long it had been since he entered this place, how long he had been marching ahead with his weapons in his hands. They were shaking now. His hands shook as if he were trying to cast a spell again. Every time he looked at them he thought they were covered in blood, the blood of friend and foe alike. All those people he failed to save.

“Blood for blood.”

“The unworthy cannot serve. Not as Shield, not as anything.”

“The unworthy must die.”

“The unworthy must die.”

“You can end your own suffering.”

For but a moment he heard the voices, and cold terror gripped him. Cor lunged for his weapons. Those two steel blades were his only friends, the only things he could trust. Clarus had been right – Clarus had been more than right. And now Cor was here, all on his own, fastening the sheaths to his belt again with wild eyes, a wildly beating heart. Another trial awaited him. He didn’t even remember what happened inside the chamber; his memory cut out for a few minutes. It was only that when he received the powers from finishing the trial that his consciousness snapped back to him. The awareness of his surroundings that others praised as excellent, the awareness he relied on more than the more experienced people did. Part of him hoped he would never have to rely on experience.

Part of him hoped it would end here, sooner rather than later. The imaginary blood that dripped off his hands and his weapons that felt so real it almost scorched his skin like trying to cast a spell did.

He dragged his hands down his face.

He had no idea there was actual blood on them – his blood for once. Not that it was much; it was simply lost underneath the hazy vision that followed him everywhere.

* * *

_They leave Galahd at last. Slowly, unhappily. Cor is squished between the prince and his best friend and protector as usual. The mechanic’s driving for once. The chamberlain stares out of the side window with a thoughtful gaze._

_Cor should not be happy about leaving the place. He’s Crownsguard, he had made an oath to protect these very people they were leaving behind now. But for a split moment he feels like he can breathe again. He has no idea what’s going on for the most part during their drive; he spaces out for most of it. Vacant expression, time racing. It isn’t until Clarus asks Cid something that Cor even feels like he has a physical body any longer. But those words, free of any joy, jerk him back into reality._

“ _Heard anything of your daughter lately, Cid?”_

“ _No, nothing,” the man rasps as he drives the car, “but I know she’s likely happy with her--”_

_Whatever Cid says gets lost in the intense static that fills Cor’s head. He trembles, he realises, and the conversation comes to a halt when Prince Regis tells Cid to stop. Cor barely notices that Clarus drags him out of the car together with the prince, almost too gentle for two men who could easily rend entire armies apart. Two men who could cut down MTs covered in blood without freezing up, without fear, without--_

_Cor leans over and he realises why the prince had asked to take a break. The prince notices things, even if they are still not friends. They are royalty and servant, but Cor also knows he is infinitely younger than Prince Regis._

_He sobs between heaves, and the other four exchange silent glances. It is only because they decide to rest at a nearby settlement that they learn of the Proving Grounds being discovered while they were gone, only because of Cor’s poor physical – and mental – condition they learn that all expeditions King Mors sent there never returned. No survivors._

_At least Galahd has survivors so far. The war has not engulfed the entire region. Yet. It is only a matter of time._

_He sobs again._

* * *

The Blademaster was an impressive creature. Perhaps even a man. Broad and tall, towering. Every single one of his movements was so unlike the clunky and jittery ones Cor had seen throughout the rest of the canyon. Everything was fluid. An almost flawless display of grace and power, more imposing than even Clarus Amicitia’s mother.

Yet he was also the culmination of every single nightmare Cor had ever had since the day they fought their first battle in Galahd. Galahdians were tall – MTs were tall too – the Blademaster was tall. Even the most graceful movement in this fight was as if the Galahdian soldiers he had fought beside that he had seen fall to gunfire had come back to life. He was definitely shaped like a human, moved and spoke like one. There was no face to go with this, all there was was a mask. It was like staring at a MT in the middle of a battlefield. Unmoving masks, no expression to tell anything. Glowing, piercing eyes that seemed to stare right through him, but the Blademaster’s eyes were judging where the MTs’ eyes were empty.

He knew all of Cor’s shortcomings. He knew everything that Cor could ever try. This was not the training grounds, there were no people judging him on his performance and helping him get up if he got knocked on his back. The only thing that would greet him would be that blade, cleanly stabbed through his chest. Perhaps he wouldn’t even feel it, or at least so he hoped.

Flurries of attacks. Cor was smaller, faster. He had less strength to rely on, but he was nimble enough to avoid the heavy blows the Blademaster swung down. The rock beneath their feet cracked, and Cor wondered if it would break. If they both plummeted to their death, would he at least be remembered for having won?

Blades clashed in the sunset. It should have sounded like back in Insomnia when they trained, but all Cor heard was the sound of metal hitting metal on a battlefield. Whatever focus he had managed to wrestle from his racing thoughts was slipping fast. He was losing this fight, losing slowly but steadily.

His technique was always praised for being almost flawless, but right now he felt like he was but a child swinging a wooden sword.

It was this exact moment that Cor realised…

He was a child.

A child that had been on a battlefield, a child that had ignored the warnings it had been given. For a terrifying moment he stared at the Blademaster as he parried a blow – a child staring at a monster. A child with a trail of blood behind it.

For but a split second he felt it – the thing that the other trainees described in strange words. The energy that spiked somewhere in their bodies. Normally they focused it. Cor was panicking, and this was not helping.

A bright shower of electricity burst forth from his blade, the sheer power of it overwhelming even the Blademaster. They both staggered away from each other, and Cor felt the dull pain setting in as it always did. Like sparks running down his body. It wouldn’t be too long until paralysis would set in like it always did.

He had lost the fight at this point, but he dashed forward while the Blademaster was dazed from the sudden burst of magic. Cor swung the weapon the king had given him with desperate energy, his body already growing sluggish. He had aimed for the Blademaster’s head or chest.

Instead the katana connected with the shoulder, the impact so sudden it almost sent Cor to his knees. For a split second he _saw_ what was going on. He saw splatters of his own blood on the Blademaster’s mask. The terrible, terrible sound of metal ripping through flesh grated in his ears, made bile rise in his throat. Blademaster and Crownsguard stared at each other for what felt like an eternity.

A loud _clang_ rang through the canyon as Cor’s beloved and most prized possession hit the ground when his hands went too numb to continue holding it.

A wet _thunk_ reminded him that he had cleaved off the Blademaster’s arm.

The next thing he heard was the sound of himself hitting the ground – the Blademaster’s arm had landed in a puddle of blood. The very same puddle of blood Cor was lying in now.

It was his own blood he noted as the chorus of voices, the mixture of his dreams and whatever haunted these canyons, fell silent. Even the static faded.

At least he’d won _something_ in here. A triumph over the voices, and he had managed to injure the Blademaster. That was good enough. It was enough. He could die in peace now.

* * *

_He recovers. The doctors had told the prince that there was nothing to save, that Cor was as good as dead._

_But he recovers against all odds. Bandaged up, his arm in a sling, the other gripping a walking cane as he stumbles after the prince to the car. His dreams are so blissfully empty now, which should be more terrifying than anything else. But Cor revels in the silence. Revels in the fact that he is alive and can feel rested after sleep again. He had missed that._

“ _I’ll put in a good word for you once we’re back in Insomnia. For surviving the impossible you at least deserve a promotion,” the prince jokes and earns himself a nasty glare from Clarus._

_They drop Cid and Weskham off at Galdin Quay. Cid because he has his family outside of the Crown City. Weskham because… Cor has no idea. But it is the prince, the shield and him who return to the city._

_In their last night under the stars outside the city, Cor’s dreams are not empty and static. He but sees through the mist for once, and watches Galahd burn, burn, burn. But it is the Blademaster who stands between the masses crying out._

_It is only when Cor awakes the next morning that he realises…_

_The sword King Mors has given him is missing. The prince merely offers him a hand with a pained grin._

“ _The sword wasn’t with you when we found you. But you being alive is better than any lousy sword my father can make you a million of if you but ask him to, Cor.”_

_Cor never asks for a replacement._


	3. Day 3 - Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD NEWS THE FFXIV PATCH WAS AMAZING BUT ALSO PUT THAT THING BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM OR SO HELP ME
> 
> bad news, ah, the sweet, sweet smell of failure as i fall even further behind on the writing schedule. at least i have day 4 done. happy 31st. if you hear crying from germany thats me

At some point people started wondering if the infamous Immortal was scared of anything. Cor faced battle with a blank expression, the traumatic experiences of Galahd always fresh on his mind. At some point even the Niffs start whispering his name in hushed voices; like some sort of infamous whirlwind of death they could not defeat.

Cor hated the nickname, truly he did. It followed him everywhere, most of all back onto the Galahdian battlefield.

After his injuries had healed the group had set out again. They were to secure Accordo’s open support for warfare against the empire. They came to Accordo with the high hopes that they could change the sway of history and fate, that they could help the people of Galahd. Two years of warfare.

And they left with nothing. Cor, now seventeen, found himself on the battlefields of Galahd again. Accordo had refused them open help. Perhaps a few soldiers at best, but nothing more. They left with a disagreement, with Weskham looking at his Accordan friend Camelia Claustra with a pained expression as they parted. Prince Regis was fuming, inconsolable rage bursting out of him once they were out of Accordo and on the open sea. His country and his people were suffering, and Cor’s gaze was fixed on the horizon as Cid muttered that the prince was acting like a spoilt brat in the wake of war.

Galahd smouldered in his memory now, ashes where there had once been flames. Lucis lost. Galahd lost.

All they had were people now under the empire’s iron rule, an entire region of the kingdom swallowed up by the Niffs. They had burned hundreds of years of architecture and culture in their mad quest for conquest, a testing site for their terrible new weapons that looked human but were not human at all. A gaggle of children clung to the prince who had saved them just before, the ashes of the last village of Galahd long behind them. They were even younger than Cor had ever been.

That night by the campfire, when he realised how young these kids were, he had to excuse himself. Cor the Immortal was not even an adult by any means, yet he had to wear the mask of a battle-hardened warrior. If he started crying there so would all these children who were still clinging to the actual adults around the campfire. Cid had a good way with children – he had a daughter, they had all been invited to her wedding as Cor recovered. But Cor was not like these kids that flocked to the men making jokes. The fire would likely haunt them, the voices of their parents and friends. Cor’s dreams were still a mess of canyons and gunfire, of a single man towering over a mountain of corpses in the wastelands of Galahd.

He sat there for a long while, staring into the distance. On the horizon, barely more than a faint glimmer, was the Wall. Its light was so bright against the darkness, it betrayed the distance between home, safety and this very place. He shuddered when he felt a hand on his back.

“Reg wanted to let you know that tomorrow we’re setting out to get transporters for these people. They’ll be brought to Insomnia.” Weskham’s voice was surprisingly gentle and smooth for someone who spent the better part of his days yelling commands and barking strategies in the middle of a battlefield. “Galahd is done for, but all the people still at the borders? Perhaps in a gesture of imperial goodwill they will give Lucis a week to collect their wounded. Get the people who wish to leave hearth and home behind out. That’s it.”

A week was more than enough. New Year’s Eve was sombre, foreboding.

Then the news of King Mors having fallen gravely ill arrived on the former battlefields. Weskham said that he wanted to return to Accordo the next day when Regis was ordering a hasty return to the Crown City.

The prince-soon-to-be-king and Cid ended up having a fight over something that Cor had missed as he and Clarus checked the perimeter. The mechanic left shortly after the chamberlain, and suddenly fear gripped Cor’s entire being. His friends and allies were leaving, perhaps never to be seen again. That fear followed him as the remaining three returned to Insomnia, to the Citadel.

The people wondered if this young man who started rising through the ranks of the Crownsguard once he turned eighteen had any fears. Even his friend Monica wondered that.

Cor didn’t know. All he knew was that when he stood there at Prince Regis’ coronation he feared the inevitable day that all of them died in the crossfire – apart instead of together.

* * *

_The mission is simple enough, and he trusts Monica. She’s fast and sneaky when she needs to be, and she knows how to extract information as quickly and efficiently as possible. Yet as he stands there waiting for her, he can’t help but shake the feeling something is about to go terribly wrong._

_When he hears footsteps behind him, Cor draws the sword without thinking first – the gun he carries is an absolute last resort._

_The man he faces smiles at him from underneath his hood – whoever that man is he does not look Niff. Perhaps a test subject of this facility? Why was he wearing a hood, then?_

“ _Cor the Immortal. Such a funny name for someone so delightfully mortal.”_

_Cor blinks._

_He’s 26 now, definitely not the same brash fool he was when he was fifteen. But something about this man rings his alarm bells – yet he cannot find himself able to attack him. The stranger shoots him a wide grin, unsettling at best but not like something a scientist who just discovered an enemy inside his facility would do._

“ _Are you truly prepared for the storm yet to come? Can you weather what your king makes you do?”_

_Cor lowers his sword. The katana he carries nowadays is one from the Proving Grounds together with his off-hand one, a reminder that he survived when none else did. But it looks perfectly common – yet he knows that he could cut this hooded fool down where he stands without much effort. The stranger looks absolutely famished, thin and gangly underneath the heavy layer of cloth that seemed to look completely out of place._

_Definitely a test subject. Most likely one that has gone mad at this point, and Cor sheaths the katana slowly. No need to attack a harmless if unnerving man. In the distance he sees Monica exit the facility, her steps definitely too strange to ignore._

“ _Take care on the long road – you’ll never know who leaves you next.”_

_He cringes and turns back around._

_The stranger is gone._

_Monica runs towards him holding what looks like a toddler just about the same age as Prince Noctis back at home in Insomnia._

* * *

Even though he never used it to begin with, there was a sharp snap that disconnected him from the king’s magic. For a moment his world turned terribly slowly as he stopped dead despite being supposed to be running alongside the civilians who he had helped get this far unharmed. Jared Hester stopped too, and with him Iris. Cor raised a hand to his forehead and then shook his head.

Regis had known about this from the very beginning. That was why he had sent Noctis away and would ensure that the Ring of the Lucii never fell into the hands of the Niffs. The sun was setting and he needed to get these civilians into the Crownsguard transporters just beyond the wall up ahead – not the Wall, for the Wall had shattered not too long ago and signalled the descent into chaos that was taking place within the Crown City. All those years, and suddenly there was this gaping hole where a power he never harnessed used to lie dormant.

It could only mean that Regis and Clarus were dead. Cor had been strategically placed as far away from the Citadel as they possibly could, he realised when the Wall shattered. The panicked yelling of the people reminded him of Galahd, and he had to fight the urge to scream with them. It wasn’t until just earlier that Jared Hester, Clarus’ servant, had arrived with Clarus’ daughter Iris and his own grandson Talcott that Cor had started moving again. He had been frozen in place, the chorus of voices that had been silent for so long tormenting him again.

Strategically placed as far away as possible, so he would live while the other two died. They had left him standing there with his ghosts and faced a danger that they should have faced as King, Shield, Marshal. Instead Cor was alive, herding the people around the wall and assigning them to vehicles. All these people looked at him, fear and desperation plain on their faces as Cor slowly assigned Iris, Jared and Talcott to a vehicle that would take the direct route to Lestallum.

Once that was done he left, but Iris grabbed his sleeve.

“Marshal, what about you? My father?”

For but a second he was back in Galahd during an operation where they had tried to retake the country after the death of Lady Aulea. Niflheim had started that fight, to be fair, and the king had ordered a massive strike against the outside regions of Galahd. They were going to retake the country, with the king at the helm.

With the sobbing toddler prince back with the nannies in Insomnia.

A teenager had grabbed the king’s sleeve then. The kid looked like he had seen a ghost – not unlikely, King Regis had snatched him from a collapsing house where the corpses of his mother and sister burned, burned like the funeral pyres the Galahdians had been forbidden from building underneath imperial rule.

Cor’s entire body seized up for a moment before he shook his head again.

“I’ll get out of Insomnia, I promise. But your father...”

Iris likely knew that he was dead. She did not have a magical bond to the king that she felt snap not too long ago, but she was more intelligent than she let on.

Another fifteen year old, ready to leave the road behind for a country torn by a war. But unlike Cor back then, Iris would not be fighting in it. After this night the fighting would stop, for better or for worse. Prince Noctis was out in Lucis somewhere – an heir to an occupied throne. Iris and he watched an airship pass over their heads, something strange dangling from it. He felt the urge to scream when something reflected off the dangling thing; this had to be the Crystal and he could do nothing but stare.

“Go. You’ll be safer in Lestallum than you ever were in Insomnia.”

It was a fancy lie. But Cor would not let her get traumatised by whatever it was that was going to happen. The sunset was foreboding as he ran back into the city, directed other civilians to safety.

Then the sun set.

He saw the creatures rise, saw the distant flashing of Magitek gunfire. Daemons that towered over even the tall buildings of the Crown City, leaving naught but devastation in their wake. Cor’s heart stopped when a building just next to him collapsed. He ran, the members of the Crownsguard he had reconvened with in the city earlier ran.

He was the only one left standing as the clouds of dust and rubble settled. Again and again and again death eluded him as it took all people around him, and for a second he considered drawing his weapon and attacking this thing. It would kill him for certain.

The only reason he paused was because the Blademaster had been supposed to kill him for certain as well. He had not defeated the creature at the bottom of the definitely man-made Proving Grounds. He had been left to live with the shame of defeat, not knowing that all it did was make him some sort of legend. The only man to ever survive the Trials of Gilgamesh.

Trying to fight what the Niffs called Diamond Weapon and living would only make this infernal nickname he had gotten stick even more.

Cor cursed his luck, cursed his very existence, cursed King Regis and Clarus, and Weskham and Cid, and King Mors, his parents, Prince Noctis, the Crownsguard. He turned tail and ran away, the whispering voices following him, this time joined with the members of the Crownsguard who had just vanished underneath the collapsing building. Joined by the distant, fuzzy voice of the Blademaster grating through the memories he had long since discarded.

His fears were catching up to him at last, just as the test subject back in Niflheim had said.

Everyone was leaving him behind, and there was nothing he could do.

Marshal of the Crownsguard Cor Leonis ran that night. Ran even when the Old Wall rose from its slumber, dragged injured and uninjured citizens of Insomnia after him as he desperately tried to fight the rising panic.

He lived through the night. Regis and Clarus didn’t, and his fingers were cold and clammy by the time he stopped the bike he had been given by a Crownsguard trainee who died in his arms that night at Hammerhead.

* * *

_Monica laughs as she pats his shoulders. People often assumed that the two of them were an item, but they both only rolled their eyes at these rumours. They make a good team, nothing more and nothing less. Monica is one of the few people he trusts blind despite the rough start they had._

_He tells her one night that everyone he gets along with seems to have him at first, and she pats him on the shoulder._

“ _Sometimes those kinds of bonds are the strongest. The woman who died on the last mission – she and I were like that as well. We hated each other. We wound up being friends.”_

_They both turn to stare into their drinks and Cor sighs. Eventually it is Monica who takes a long swig of it and slams the glass back down on the counter._

“ _That’s how it is, I guess. That’s gonna sound terrible, but it’s my biggest fear to die out there, unable to change anything.”_

“ _It sounds nowhere near as terrible as you believe it does.”_

_She doesn’t know that in his dreams people who have been dead for ten years haunt him. Doesn’t know that sometimes he wants to force people to stay instead of letting them leave only for them to never return._

_Years later he thinks the same again as Clarus turns around._

“ _Those are your orders for the night.”_

“ _And what about you? Those orders are oddly specific. What,” Cor’s voice trails off as he stands there behind Clarus, and for a moment it feels like he’s fifteen again, standing outside the throne room beside Lady Aulea and Clarus as Prince Regis bursts into the room and yells at his father, “are you and His Majesty planning?”_

‘ _Nothing,’ a voice that sounds like the Blademaster whispers in his head as Clarus does not answer, ‘they are planning nothing. They plan on dying and leaving you behind, just as your parents did. Just as everyone always did.’_

_Clarus leaves._

_Cor stays._

* * *

He wasn’t planning on staying long, but it had been years since he had last seen Cid. The man already looked ancient to begin with, but he now also looked like he had aged a hundred years over night. On the table in the room was a newspaper, and Cor had really only stopped by because he had told Prince Noctis to come here – and because he needed to wash the smell of dust and ash, of fire and blood out of his clothes and his hair. They had started talking at some point, about how King Regis had to have known what would happen.

Cor listened for the most part. He had never been much of a talker, and Cid definitely sounded like he needed to get something off his chest.

“Was cruel of Reggie and Clarus t’leave you behind like that.” Cid said so matter of factly that it knocked the wind out of Cor. “But all the same, I’m glad you’re still around, kiddo. Prince Noctis is gonna need someone who doesn’t jus’ have rubbish for brains.”

“I… yes. You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” Cor said as he looked at the photo on the table next to the newspaper.

A photo Clarus had taken of Cor, Regis, Cid and Weskham before they left for Accordo on the boat. The boat likely was still moored at Cape Caem – remembering this in this very moment sounded significant, and he made a mental note of it.

“Can you and Cindy tell His Highness to come to the royal tomb?”

Monica was alive and at the nearest hunter settlement. People were fleeing towards Duscae; it would not be too long before the empire would close off the roads to catch stragglers of the Crownsguard, perhaps even the wayward prince himself.

Cor and Cid exchanged a long look. Cid knew of course what kinds of nightmares ailed Cor. The man likely knew that in his sleep he still whimpered and asked people not to leave but also to stop blaming him for their deaths. A long moment of silence, broken by Cid sighing loudly and nodding.

“Wasn’t gonna tie ya down, Cor.”

The Marshal of the Crownsguard carried the key to the tombs. The highest-ranking member of the Crownsguard always did in the even that the current ruler died and the heir would need to gather their family’s powers. Which meant that Cor had a duty now.

Even if fear constricted his insides as he left Hammerhead. He was scared of sending someone barely older than he had been to his doom. He was scared that he would outlive three monarchs. But he’d have to contend with that fear and continue being the warrior that everyone knew. Cor the Immortal had no fears, after all.

Cor Leonis could always cry in fear when he was by himself.


	4. Day 4 - Marshal Leonis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... i fell even further behind my schedule because i decided today was the day i cap my weekly tomestones AND get my weekly loot from sigmascape  
>  the patch's been out for a day.  
> im done with weeklies, have done all dungeons, have done omega, did the normal version of the new trial to unlock extreme for the weekend, did all story  
> drops face on keyboard  
> im a master... of mismanaging my time... mistress of procrastination...
> 
> but as i wanted to say, these oneshots are chronological.

Marshal Cor Leonis, known as the Immortal, watched the four of them leave into the cave with mixed feelings. Prince Noctis reminded him of his father – not particularly in a good way. Prince Regis had been explosive, quick to speak his mind even when it was not entirely appropriate. Cor had simply recited what he had heard from the Marshal when the then recently crowned King Regis had set out to gain the weapons of his ancestors as well. Somewhere out there was King Regis’ trusty sword, ready to be collected just like any other weapon.

King Mors’ weapon likely landed somewhere in the Citadel after his son died, too. A weapon materialising out of thin air.

Cor had barely avoided getting his weapons stuck in the dematerialised state. Monica had said that her shield was stuck – the magic died with the king. Their connection to the Crystal and its powers used King Regis as catalyst. With the middle man dead, even the few surviving members of the Kingsglaive were down to Crownsguard levels of skill. He did notice that the very few Glaives he saw all looked shell-shocked somehow. Unsurprising, considering most of their order had been wiped out trying to get Princess Lunafreya back from the empire. Whatever happened after that they could not say. Most simply started sobbing.

He did notice one of them with a Kingsglaive-issued dagger stuck in their shoulder. Cor never got to speak to that Glaive in particular, but something about that scene threw him off.

Thus he and Monica stuck their heads together as they waited for Prince Noctis to come back to them. The sun set and Cor was pacing.

If Prince Noctis died in that dungeon, he would never forgive himself. Cor Leonis, the Immortal, the bane of the last king of Lucis. The one who ended a bloodline older than their calendar, possibly old enough to remember the times of Solheim. Bloodlines… He stopped pacing and turned to look at Monica.

“Has any word reached you about the Ring of the Lucii?”

“None,” she said quietly, “the few survivors that are stuck in the Crown City said that they found King Regis with a few fingers torn off and no Ring of the Lucii to be seen.”

Cor pinched the bridge of his nose. Outside the lights at the settlement flickered on; the unmistakable sound of a Magitek engine flying overhead drowning out the sudden electric buzz. On the horizon he could see that the empire was building something – likely a barricade.

“So we are safe to assume that the Ring of the Lucii _and_ the Crystal are in Niff hands, likely already in Gralea.”

“Mhm. Seems so, Marshal.”

“That’s not good, that’s not good at all.” He started pacing again, a headache dulling his senses.

It continued like that for a few more minutes before Monica got up.

“Okay, stop it. Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous. And you’re bleeding.”

He could not let something like his emotions or a petty little injury get in the way of his duties as Marshal. With Clarus Amicitia dead the role of leader fell to the Marshal until Prince Noctis’ coronation also catapulted Gladiolus Amicitia to the top of the rank chain. The Shield of the King led the Crownsguard, the Marshal was their instrument out in fields where the Shield could not go. Cor had sworn that pledge himself when he had been given the rank of Marshal. What he had also sworn was that he would lead in case the leader fell.

Still, he let Monica treat this injury – it looked like he had gotten grazed by a bullet while fighting the Niffs together with the prince earlier. The Crownsguard needed their Marshal. And the Marshal needed to be doing things, not standing here waiting for things to happen or for the prince to re-emerge from the trench.

“The Niffs have been up to something today, and I want to go check it out.”

“Wait until the morning, Marshal. It’s night, there’s Niffs likely looking for you to make an example out of you for the rest of us, and you’re definitely not in the best mental state right now. I can see it in your eyes – you keep staring around as if you expect something to jump at you. Stay the night, go in the morning. His Highness will be alright because he has his friends with him. You on your own however...”

She had a point. He hated it when she had a point, but he sighed in defeat.

* * *

_The voice is familiar at least. The Niff commander that catches them while they are trying to bust through as quickly as possible is none other than Loqi Tummelt. A young man who hates Cor, and Cor has little to no idea why. But the boy – he’s the same age as Prince Noctis and Prompto, for crying out loud! – challenges them. He’s confident at the very least, and Cor definitely sees him limping away from his machine before it explodes. If he’s clever he’s going to stay out of sight._

_He does, and Cor sees the prince and his friends off. Beyond there lies the rest of Lucis, a place that Prince Noctis has never gotten to see in his whole life. Beyond there lie the other tombs that Regis never got to find because he had a country to rule with hundreds and thousands of Galahdian refugees to be distributed across the Crown City and the other bigger cities in Lucis. Too much to do, too little time for everything. Therefore King Regis had foregone the search for royal arms._

_Noctis would be going on the pilgrimage that his father was never able to. A pilgrimage through the country._

_And Cor catches himself staring, wishing he could go along._

_It is Monica who eventually picks him up in her car – the bike he had gotten from a dying fellow Crownsguard during the Fall of Insomnia is professionally attached to the roof of the vehicle._

“ _Well, where do we go from here?”_

_He spends the next few hours calling through and texting all members of the Crownsguard. Even a handful Kingsglaives. Most people never answer. Some others are panicked, some others express relief when they hear the Marshal’s voice. They are sprinkled across the countryside now, a loose network. Some say they want to help the people more than anything else – if Prince Noctis wants an uprising then an uprising they will gladly stage, but for the time being they are Lucians first and servants to the crown second._

_That’s the moment Cor understands what he needs to do._

“ _Monica,” he says as they drive past yet another camping ground with ancient runes etched into the stone, “I know it is a several days long trip, but. Take us to Meldacio Hunter HQ.”_

“ _Meldacio? How come?”_

“… _I want to offer our services to the hunters. Lucis needs us, and being hunters will also help us find the tombs.”_

* * *

He groaned slowly. He definitely had a concussion, he was sitting in a puddle of his own blood, and what he had been trying to protect with a Glaive, a Crownsguard and a hunter was gone. The Glaive was dead, unfortunately, and the Crownsguard and the hunter were nowhere to be seen. Cor tried to drag himself to his feet, but a sharp stinging pain reminded him that this creature had at least dislocated his leg – if not broken it entirely.

Whoever had locked this thing in this tomb had a bad taste for jokes, and Cor definitely wanted to have a harsh word with a person that was most likely dead. But it was too late now, and the dragon was gone. So was the royal arm.

“Marshal!”

The Crownsguard and the hunter were back, and the hunter immediately got her first aid kit out to help superficially patch him up so he would last until they found a doctor. Potions upon potions, and all Cor felt was the nausea related to magic; that was what potions were after all. Magically enhanced, an almost deadly mixture of energy drink and Crystal magic. A broth that did nothing for people who were not at least touched by magic or Lucians.

“You really are immortal. Anyone else would have died,” the huntress whispered with awe in her voice as the Crownsguard helped Cor to his feet. He hated the nickname, hated it so much. But the Crownsguard needed him. Therefore he was going to stay alive against all odds, no matter what.

“Guess I am.”

He recovered quickly enough. According to the huntress the creature had taken up residence in Costlemark Tower – not exactly the best place to stay, but if Prince Noctis wanted to obtain all weapons that were scattered throughout Lucis he would have to take on this. Perhaps Cor would offer him his help, he definitely wanted to see how the group had progressed.

That was the very day Gladiolus Amicitia called him and asked to meet near Taelpar. The very location made a bad sense of foreboding settle in the pit of his stomach as he said he would meet Gladiolus there as soon as possible. Surely enough the young man confirmed Cor’s worst nightmares.

He wanted to take on the Blademaster.

The other members of the Crownsguard knew where it was. Cor had made a point in demanding that none were ever allowed in there again. That was the only thing he had ever demanded of King Mors, then of King Regis. None were supposed to have to go through these trials ever again, for there was no point in throwing your life away like that. Cor had to learn it the hard way, and that night his dreams once more were of fire and blood. For the first time in years he found himself staring at a distance battlefield, and with a jolt of terror he realised that behind him stood the surviving members of the Crownsguard. He was the only thing standing between these disarmed and bleeding people and one of the Diamond Weapons that the empire had unleashed upon Insomnia. The burning battlefield was Insomnia, too.

It was just him, fifteen years old again, with nothing and no one to help him.

‘Focus your thoughts,’ a voice that sounded like the Blademaster’s whispered through the dissonant cries and screeches, ‘much more will be required of you in the years to come. Steel yourself. Steel your resolve.’

He agreed to Gladiolus’ request the next morning. The Amicitia asked if he was feeling okay over the phone, but once more he barely realised how exhausted he actually was. There was no need to risk Gladiolus running head first into the trials without someone to prepare him for it; heavens knew that Cor had lived through that himself. He barely remembered it outside of terrifying flashes of clarity, distorted words that whatever haunted these grounds had whispered. The only thing he clearly remembered were the final moments of his fight against the Blademaster. That jolt of terror that manifested into an actual jolt of electricity.

Gladiolus was Crownsguard. Cor was the Marshal. No matter how much these flashes of clarity haunted him in his sleep even thirty years after it happened, the Crownsguard needed its Marshal. A job that Cor had accepted proudly – the teenager from a poor family with nothing but his name, Marshal of the Crownsguard. It was his duty to ensure that Lucian citizens were safe, even if they ran head first into a dragon’s maw.

He just needed to make that much clear.

* * *

_He sits before the final trial chamber, legs and arms crossed and his eyes squeezed shut. Not a sound comes through the barrier, there’s no telling if Gladiolus is alive. He had not paid attention to the spirits again, but as he sits there waiting for either a successful combatant or the confirmation that Gladiolus had died he finds himself thinking._

_Those voices… the Blademaster._

_For a few more minutes he tries to keep the thoughts down, but eventually he opens his eyes again._

“ _Please,” he whispers into the canyon, and for a moment he feels a shift in the energies in the place, “for how long have you been here?”_

_The only answer he gets is silence. Perhaps that is enough of an answer. Thirty years were a lot for a mortal, even if they called him immortal. Thirty years for non-corporeal entities were likely nothing in comparison. He accepts this and remains on the ground – mostly because he can almost hear Monica chewing him out for pacing around like a caged tiger. Only the wind howls as the sun sets, and Cor waits._

_Sooner or later he will have his answer._

_He has it when Gladiolus returns bloodied and beaten, with his head held high despite the blood running down his face and chest. All the cuts. All the injuries._

_Cor almost starts laughing when he sees his own blade in the young man’s hands. A blade issued by King Mors, handed to a young recruit of the Crownsguard who exceeded all expectations._

_He lets Gladiolus keep it. Perhaps as some way of passing the torch._

* * *

The hunters were staring and making this situation rather awkward. He had been there by pure coincidence, since Prince Noctis was on his way to Costlemark and had politely declined Cor’s help with retrieving the royal arm. Thus Cor had decided to return to Hammerhead, only to find three hunters, a busted-up vehicle and several extremely hungry and very mutated carnivores. He had only done the right thing and saved these three hunters, and this was how they were repaying him.

Making a scene as he contacted Meldacio.

“Thanks, Marshal, I owe ya one for this,” Dave Auburnbrie said over the phone, “leave ‘em with Takka. I’ll have someone else pick ‘em up later.”

People revered him as the immortal Marshal, perhaps a ghost haunting the countryside seeking revenge on Niflheim for taking his king’s life. Prince Noctis being alive and helping the country stay safe even under the imperial gag rule and Cor Leonis being out there and making certain as many hunters and fighters survived made the whispers of rebellion louder. They had likely already reached Accordo since Cid and Weskham were in constant contact. Noctis would have to get to Accordo to forge a covenant. It was likely where he would finally meet with Lady Lunafreya again after all these years – not to marry but to stand side by side instead. They could always marry once the empire was driven back if that was truly what the two of them wanted.

Whispers of rebellion, and Cor’s expression soured as he looked towards the horizon. Accordo had not helped them with Galahd back then. The fact that Galahd fell as it did had likely contributed to King Regis’ final fall. He did not know, but something about the way the few Glaives who were still alive acted made Cor suspicious – as if they felt guilty for something that they could have stopped from happening.

If Accordo joined with Prince Noctis’ pleas for support, Cor had to admit he would not be happy with it. Weskham and Camelia had tried their best back then, but now Camelia held a true position of power. What Prince Regis failed at Prince Noctis would succeed with.

It was unfair. Not that he wanted Prince Noctis to fail, far from it – but he had been there, suffered with Regis through thirty years of war. And all Regis and Clarus had gotten out of it were swords through their backs, just like all the Galahdians that they had failed to save. Was that how divine justice worked?

He shook his head slightly and reached for his phone. There was one other thing he needed to do.

“Leonis here. Team Epsilon, you’re hereby relieved from your scouting duty – I think we have all tombs we can possibly find, and His Highness is on his way to retrieve the one taken to Costlemark.”

“Gotcha, Marshal! What should we do next?”

“You’re also relieved of your duty to the Crownsguard.”

“C-Come again!?”

“Go to Meldacio and offer your services as full-time hunters. Lucis needs that more than the Crownsguard right now. I’ll meet with you all once I told the other teams out there – we ought to grab as many Glaives as we can and teach each other our techniques. It might be vital.”

He wasn’t exactly disbanding the Crownsguard. Only the ruler of the country could do that, but he had noticed one thing. The Crownsguard needed its Marshal, yes.

But Lucis needed all people it could get. And Cor was just one of many – a man dressed in black, in service to crown and country. Perhaps it was time to put the country ahead of the crown for once, just like he had wanted when their retaliation strike had only burned more of Galahd.


	5. Day 5 - World of Ruin

For a moment he had felt like everything was going the right way. The speech Lunafreya delivered from Accordo, broadcast across all of Eos, was rousing and invigorating. Even the quiet Cape Caem felt like it was bristling in agreement. Perhaps those children could right what their parents had wronged.

‘Be ready,’ a familiar voice whispered, ‘this isn’t over yet.’

It wasn’t over yet. It would never be over. At first only chopped up pieces of information came out of Altissia. The Niff commander Caligo Ulldor, the very same man who had all but executed Jared Hester in front of Iris and Talcott, was reported as missing, then dead. Prince Noctis and Lunafreya were reported missing. Ignis was reported missing. Ravus Nox Fleuret was rumoured to be dead. Lists of casualties and vanished people were flooding in, and Cor felt dread whenever Weskham reported an update. Eventually the phone line died – Cor was forced to look at a website. Talcott and Iris sat upstairs with Monica, and Monica was the one pacing for once.

Then the preliminary aftermath reports came in.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was dead, her death confirmed by her severely injured brother who was whisked away to Niflheim right away.

Noctis Lucis Caelum was alive but unconscious, battered and beaten and quickly taken into custody by the Accordan government.

Ignis Scientia was teetering between the borders of life and death, his face covered in terrible burns; likely he would go blind from this.

Caligo Ulldor, dead.

Hundreds of names, hundreds of people were reported as injured – but the true casualty number was a lot lower than Cor would have expected it to be. Apparently Weskham and Camelia had managed to twist everything in a way that most of the dead were Niff soldiers.

They returned from Accordo briefly. Cid looked sullen, said that they only came because Gladiolus wanted a word with Iris in person. They would be moving on to the other continent tomorrow, the train tickets were already booked and Niflheim was finally going to pay for what they had done.

The group did not look like avengers. Prince Noctis’ eyes were half-closed and vacant, an expression that Cor recognised with a jolt of terror. Gladiolus was trembling in rage as he stalked off to find his sister. Prompto was jittery and jumpy, more so than he usually was. And Ignis, usually holding his head high and proud… he looked absolutely crestfallen, even when he insisted that his eyes could likely get better. There was something that none of these four said to each other, and seeing them off the next morning put a dampener on everyone’s moods. Noctis even insisted on Cid staying behind. Just the four of them, Regis’ old car and a world of troubles.

Soon after that the world started to change. The nights got longer and longer. The hunters’ workload increased tenfold as people slowly but steadily started to panic and tried to get somewhere with more people. So many died on the roads because they underestimated how quickly the sun set nowadays.

He called upon Glaives and Crownsguard alike. They needed to work together now more than anything, and the hunters needed them. Even those who had stayed in the regions to help out there in their own ways joined up with the hunters now. Lucis was awash with people helping each other, and Cor wondered if in another lifetime perhaps the same could have been done for Galahd.

Gladiolus Amicitia, Ignis Scientia and Prompto Argentum returned from Niflheim without the prince, without the Crystal. They never said what happened, only that Noctis had gone missing and that they assumed the Chancellor of Niflheim had managed to outsmart the entire Niff government as well as all of Lucis, Tenebrae and Accordo. Cor and Dave called for a search. Half a year they looked for the missing prince, barricaded themselves up in Lestallum as the world became more and more unforgiving. Glaives who had gone back to Galahd after the Fall of Insomnia wound up in the city – Libertus Ostium avoided eye contact with all members of the Crownsguard.

Night fell. The sun did not rise again properly – the world was covered in clouds dark enough that they blotted out the sun entirely, and soon there was barely any daylight left. Perhaps an hour.

Perhaps less.

Cor didn’t know. He had the people to protect. Had outposts to secure.

The familiar hum of magic had returned after the Altissian catastrophe. The Oracle had broken something in the way the world worked, and those who had been able to in the past once more could call upon their weapons. Call upon fire, thunder and ice. There were even instances where certain people gained the ability to heal – much weaker than whatever magic the Oracle used, but watching random strangers being capable of closing wounds with just their hands was bewildering.

The world was coming apart at the seams. What he had learned as teenager no longer applied – and in the middle of nowhere he sunk to his knees exactly once.

He had not allowed himself to rest even once, despite telling all the Glaives, Crownsguard, the hunters, everyone to rest. He was not exhausted. He was numb overall, a familiar feeling, but all of a sudden the truth hit him.

He was not entirely alone, but right now he felt like it. Darkness covered Eos, covered the country he had sworn to protect. And there was nothing he could do about it other than finding Prince Noctis – or wait for his return.

* * *

_Iris returns battered and beaten, bloodied and bruised. The Glaives thank her profusely in the middle of the square, the civilians do so too before they all but run away. Much like her father before her the people start looking up to Iris and her physical strength and quick tactical thinking. Clarus would have been proud of her, he says one evening with his gaze fixed on his pint._

_Monica hums in agreement, and Cor can barely see straight. He’s tired. So very, very tired._

_It is, ironically enough, Gladiolus who suggests it first._

“ _Face your past demons. Go and finish what you started for once, Marshal.” He hands over the sword that Cor let him keep._

_The next person to suggest it is a Glaive. They lost their memories and the only thing they truly remember is that they swore an oath to keep Lucis safe. They do that, and Cor gets sent on a mission to retrieve some materials with them. They fight rather well on their own, and well in a team overall, and Cor almost wants to joke about wanting to recruit them for the Crownsguard._

_When they heal both their injuries, their touch lingers on his hands._

“ _Marshal,” they whisper, “have you ever tried casting a spell?”_

_Cor remains silent for a moment, his eyes playing a trick on him again. Suddenly he sees the Blademaster, sees their blades locked together. Feels the panicked surge, the sparks, the sudden nausea and numbness that crept through his body…_

_Cor jerks his hands out of the Glaive’s. They simply look at him with wide eyes, and Cor is rather certain that his expression is similarly startled._

“ _I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries, it… it’s just I can feel it. I can feel that untapped raging sea of energy within you and I… I just remembered… I just remembered Crowe Altius. Her words…” The Glaive’s voice is barely more than a hushed whisper. “If we do not make peace with magic it will consume us from the inside.”_

_Cor leaves without another word._

_The next time he meets the Glaive they suggest that perhaps he ought to face whatever demons keep him from making peace with the magic that ever taunted him._

* * *

Hell was empty, for all the devils danced upon the blighted earth at this point. The Proving Grounds were equally empty. No spirits challenged him, no Daemons crawled out of the caverns that Cor had rushed through when he was a teenager. Nothing was in these halls other than torn banners, torn cloth, uprooted crumbling pillars and weapons. The weapons were the most striking feature of the Proving Grounds. All those fools that had rushed in here only to be met with death.

He could have easily been one of these had it not been for that sudden burst back then. He had lost the fight against the Blademaster, but yet the creature let him go.

As he tread the familiar path for the third time in his life, he started to think.

King Mors’ magic had always felt wrong. The way the others had used it had scared him. The way the elements seemed to answer them and when Cor himself tried nothing happened. Eventually the slight fear became full-blown panic, and he let it go. That was when the issues had started cropping up. The dizziness, the nausea. The way his entire body revolted against the Crystal’s magic.

Regis had attempted to make it better. Sometimes, so Clarus had said, people could not work with magic with one of the royal family standing as their catalyst. What Regis had tried was the correct course of action, but still Cor had been unable to call upon magic. He’d even been relieved when it was gone, though it being gone meant that the catalyst had died.

He had even avoided putting his weapons in King Regis’ Armiger, and he refused it even now. Formerly only the Crownsguard learned how to access the Armiger – the Kingsglaive were extensively taught how to warp. Now that darkness had fallen both Glaives and Crownsguard were warping and suspending weapons in thin air.

The cliffs were the same that he and Gladiolus had rested upon, again with nothing but eerie silence and utter darkness as his companions. Cor walked slowly, steadily – he was not in a rush, and not getting stopped at every other corner to fight masses of reanimated corpses or Daemons to the death meant that he was much faster than before. As extensive as this man-made cavern system was, it was still finite. The final trial chamber lay open before him.

He took a deep breath as he stepped over where he knew the barrier would have been. He half expected the rock to rise and bar his only way out, but nothing of the sort happened. The only thing he heard was his own heart beating louder than usual, and for a second he thought he was fifteen again and about to run face first into a wall.

His steps were cautious and unsteady, and when he once more looked at the cave all around him giving way to what looked like an eerie bridge made of rock and rusted steel he exhaled slowly. He was not here to fight. The Blademaster had to know that.

Surely enough the creature waited with its back to Cor, and for a moment the Marshal even wondered if the Blademaster was still alive. His hand rested on the sword Gladiolus had returned.

“A fine blade, that one. So very unlike the others – yet familiar somehow.”

It definitely felt like he was a teenager again, trying to face his fears and regrets. It took him a good deal of focus to remember that he was not a child trying to run from the fires of war by desperately seeking a sense of duty, but rather a middle-aged man who had found his reason to live.

Perhaps it was silly, but Cor bowed. In a way this was not unlike the training back in Insomnia had been. The instructors were mostly nobles, and a lowly commoner like Cor always had to mind his manners around them. For all he knew this creature had been the same once, but it felt correct to bow this once. He heard the Blademaster turn around.

“Raise your head, soldier. There is no need for this.”

Everyone had said that Cor needed to face his demons, but he was not even sure if Gilgamesh truly was one of the demons he ought to face. No, that wasn’t right. Gilgamesh definitely was one of the demons he needed to face, but he did not know if this was the _correct_ demon. There were several hovering around him – the most glaring choices were either the Blademaster, going into the Crown City to rant to the long-since rotted corpses of Clarus and Regis, or going back to Galahd instead of simply working with the surviving Galahdian Glaives. The Crown City was the most dangerous place in Lucis, and Lucis already was made of only dangerous places at this point in time. He would likely never make it to the Citadel anyway, and somewhere out there remained what Ignis had described as the ‘vengeful Daemon wearing a human skin’ who just so happened to be the Chancellor of Niflheim. Galahd was too far away. Long travels in perpetual darkness without a sound reason were frowned upon and he himself had shot down many a Crownsguard who wanted to travel simply to see what became of a place they stayed at once. It would be hypocritical to go to Galahd.

He raised his head to look at the Blademaster, and once more he felt like the creature was staring right through him. The mask was cold and unmoving – it was impossible to tell what the Blademaster was thinking.

“You have come here for a reason, soldier.”

Too many reasons to count. Cor exhaled slowly as he reached for his old blade. He quietly and steadily removed it from its sheath and pointed the blade at Gilgamesh. For a few moments there was nothing but eerie silence. Perhaps part of him hoped that Gilgamesh would reach for a blade too, put an end to this.

But nothing of the sort happened, and Cor rammed the katana downwards. Fine Crown City crafts, tempered enough to withstand even the worst of blows – a blade imbued with the powers to slay the creature standing before him. Cor rammed it into the stone ground, in the middle of the path. All those other blades were similarly put into the stone.

The only difference was that their bearers were long dead. Cor had survived what they had not.

“I have.” He slowly removed his hands from the hilt. “I but want an answer.”

“And what if I refuse to give it to you? What then, soldier? You cannot remove a weapon from the stone once you put it in.”

“I was aware of that. I will leave without an answer if I have to, but if you would permit me to ask it first...”

For a second it sounded like Gilgamesh stifled a laugh, not unlike Clarus had done years in the past whenever Cor asked if he could do something incredibly stupid. “So ask, soldier.”

Gladiolus had asked about that as they made their way through the Proving Grounds. Cor had often wondered about it in the dead of night when his dissonant nightmares woke him feeling nothing but terror. Monica, Regis, Clarus. So many people asked about it.

“Why did you… let me go back then? I had lost. Those who lose die. So why then… why me?”

Darkness covered the world. People adjusted to seeing in the dim light. The world got colder, colder, from the lack of light. Eventually there was a fine layer of rime covering most plants that managed to survive without the light. The earth was blighted, wilting.

Yet the people withstood it. Crownsguard, hunters, Glaives, civilians. Every small talent found a place in the world of eternal darkness, even those that could not fight helped keep the spirits in the settlements up.

They lost Galdin Quay despite Ignis’ valiant efforts. The outposts that the Glaives had worked so hard to regain lost ground, and eventually the makeshift government of the never-ending dusk has to make a call. They were all relocated.

Yet here Cor stood in front of the Blademaster and waited for an answer. The wind had long since gone stagnant and cold, much like the water at the bottom of this trench had.

“You could ask a hundred different things – how long it had been since I came here, how long I will remain here. How much I know about all that befalls the world. And this is the question you choose?”

“I am not a wise man seeking answers that certain holes in history left; that would be the king of light’s beloved friend who seeks the answers of the universe as he waits for his sole reason to live to return only to die again. No, you said it yourself. I am a soldier. And soldiers ask selfish questions, for they know not when their lives end on the battlefield.”

A moment of silence, and this time Gilgamesh truly laughs.

“Well spoken. I let you go because a soldier may yet become a warrior; I should call you such for that is what you have become. And though terror flashed in your eyes, inhibited your every movement, there was… something about you that reminded me of olden times. Of a soldier brought to foreign battlefields despite being naught but a child. Of a soldier whose liege eased his suffering – of a soldier whose home would suffer instead.”

Cor exhaled slowly – he hadn’t even realised he had held his breath. Something about the way the Blademaster told this story was… off. Very off. The similarities between the two story notwithstanding, the way he told it was too relaxed. As if he had known the people involved in it. As if he himself had been involved in it. But before Cor ever worked up the courage to ask, the Blademaster continued.

“But a soldier you are no longer. You walked the hard and arduous path that few walked willingly, and fewer still saw to its completion. The way of the warrior is a harsh one, and yours… Perhaps I thought you could help history sway in the correct direction. Have you, Cor Leonis?”

“…” Cor shook his head slowly. “Not… not yet, I’m afraid.”

“Then let your fears guide you instead of petrify you. You need not use magic but you cannot let it consume you whole. Make your peace with it, make your peace with the world. A warrior not yet at the end of their path has more potential than simple soldiers – you are one such warrior, whereas in the past there were only soldiers. The potential to help a world on its knees. I let you live because I saw the potential within you.”

* * *

_The prince returns._

_No, not the prince. Prince Noctis vanished ten years ago, and the last time Cor saw him he saw a young adult with eyes dulled from the horrors he had lived through in his short life. The prince whose mother died in a sudden bout of sickness. The prince whose life was almost cut short first by a Daemon then the empire as they drowned his new friend’s home in flames. The prince whose father was murdered, the prince whose country was subjugated._

_The man standing before him is not Prince Noctis._

_The king returns._

_Cor feels the familiar tingle of Crystal magic, but it is not the scorching fire that runs through his veins for once. A familiar spark, but this time it is Noctis who emits it as he speaks to the people._

_He makes his peace. Not just with magic. With the whole world._

_He marches into the fallen capital, his fallen home, his fear walking beside him. He doesn’t know if he’ll see the dawn. Perhaps he never will. But dying to ensure that the dawn returns… perhaps that is the final stop in his path._

_Under King Mors he left the city beside people he did not know._

_Under King Regis he had to leave home behind and left with only his fears._

_Head held high he marches into Insomnia beside King Noctis._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
